


You're Ready And You're Willin

by LayALioness



Series: Those Meddling Kids [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Meeting the Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy knows Clarke thinks he’s nervous about meeting her dads, but he’s not, seriously. He’s just appropriately reserved about the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Ready And You're Willin

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to We've Got Some Work To Do Now, which you should probably read first for context. 
> 
> I really did mean to keep that as a one-shot, but I liked this universe way more than I was anticipating. There will probably be more to come, so prepare yourselves.
> 
> Title from the Scooby Doo theme, which will only make sense if you've read the first fic, and maybe not even then.

Bellamy knows Clarke thinks he’s nervous about meeting her dads, but he’s not, seriously. He’s just appropriately reserved about the idea.

This is the girl he’s in love with, and is practically living with at the moment, and he’s pretty sure he wants to spend the rest of his life with her—even though he hasn’t mentioned that part—and he’s just not all that excited about sitting across the table from the men who raised her.

 _He’s been inside her_ , okay? He’s not sure how he’ll be able to make conversation, with that fact rolling around in his head.

Clarke, predictably, thinks it’s cute. Octavia, even more predictably, thinks it’s pathetic.

“ _God_ , it’s not like they’re interrogating you before you take her to prom,” she snaps, pointedly.

Her own Prom had been just a few weeks ago, and he’d _definitely_ interrogated her date before letting them leave. He _may_ have left the steak knives out after sharpening them a little. Octavia still hasn’t forgiven him for it, and he’s not sure she ever will. He’ll be old and gray, and she’ll be detailing to his grandchildren how annoying and overbearing he’d been when she was seventeen.

“I’m meeting my girlfriend’s parents,” he snaps back, petulant. He doesn’t _want_ to be nervous. “It’s normal to feel a little weird about it!”

Octavia scrunches her nose at the _girlfriend_ bit—not because she doesn’t like Clarke, she loves Clarke. She one hundred percent prefers Clarke to Bellamy in every way, and makes that fact abundantly clear whenever she can—but because Bellamy’s still in that new-relationship phase, where he says _my girlfriend_ at every opportunity.

Clarke thinks it’s cute. Octavia thinks it’s disgusting.

“There's nothing normal about you two," she huffs, and leaves the room. She’s probably worried his patheticness is contagious and might rub off.

“You’re adorable,” Clarke argues, grinning over at him. She’s perched on the kitchen counter, coffee forgotten and growing cold in her lap. She’s still in her pajamas, even though it’s the afternoon, because she doesn’t have any weird art thing going on today.

 _I’m all yours_ , she’d whispered earlier, when he’d asked about it, after waking up to her curled up around him.

The only response to _that_ had been to attack her, which had gone on for another hour, and only afterwards did she mention the whole meet-the-parents thing.

He’s pretty sure she planned it that way—distract him with sex before dropping the bomb. She’s definitely got his number.

“I just,” he huffs a little. “What if they don’t like me?”

“They will,” Clarke says, matter of fact. “And even if they don’t, it doesn’t really matter if _they_ like you, because I do.”

Bellamy grins and walks over to stand between her legs, carefully setting her mug on the counter. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, kissing him. “I intend to keep you, Bellamy Blake,” she declares. “For a very long time. Maybe forever.”

“Just _maybe_ , huh?” he asks, voice light, even though he’s sort of melting on the inside.

“If you play your cards right.”

Octavia makes a loud _ahem!_ noise from the hallway, which has become her go-to ever since Clarke started spending the night. Which was the first night they started dating, five months ago.

Bellamy pulls away a little, giving Clarke an exaggerated leer, because he knows it’ll make O gag.

“Please don’t have sex on any eating surfaces,” she says primly.

“Too late,” Clarke chirps, and Octavia groans all the way to her bedroom.

“I seriously love you,” Bellamy says, leaning back in as she hooks her legs around him. They’re not about to have sex or anything, since his sister is home, and while he does like messing with her, he doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable in her own house. But he likes being close to Clarke, and she doesn’t seem to mind it, so he wraps both arms around her sides.

“I know,” she grins. “I’m pretty awesome.”

To be fair, Bellamy knows Clarke has probably been putting her dads off for a while, because she knew it would freak him out. Not because he doesn’t _want_ to meet her parents—she’s told him enough about them to know they’re great, and he’d probably get along with them fine—he’s just never actually done this, before. He only ever really dated in high school, and even then it was never serious enough for family dinners together. Mostly he just tried to fit in a few quick hook ups between babysitting O and working a million part-time jobs.

And now he’s kissing his girlfriend, after she spent the night, and he’s about to have dinner with her _parents_. They practically live together already, with just a few walls sectioning off their stuff, so he’s pretty sure the next step in this sort of thing would be marriage, which.

He would be psyched to marry Clarke, and he fully intends to, at some point. But not _soon_ , and definitely not _now_.

“You’re thinking too much,” she complains against his mouth. “Get your head in the game, Blake.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and licks into her until she’s mewling, and then he pulls back with a grin. “Better?”

“You’re insufferable,” she huffs, but she’s still breathing a little hard, so he counts it a success. “Are _you_ feeling better?”

“I was never feeling _worse_ ,” he points out, but she gives him her most unimpressed look, so he sighs and rocks back on his heels. “I get that _you_ don’t care, if they don’t like me, but I do,” he admits. “I never really got to have the whole _mom-and-dad_ thing. I barely even had a mom. It’d be cool to experience that.” He pauses and then amends, “Or _dad-and-dad._ ”

Clarke swings her arms around his neck to play with his hair. She plays with his hair a lot, these days—almost as much as he calls her his girlfriend. He’s probably never going to get it cut again. “I love you too.”

“Half an hour later,” he teases, and she kicks him in the thigh.

“You’re lucky I said it all.”

Bellamy’s response is interrupted by the buzz of his phone, where it’s charging on the table. The screen blinks with a text from O, which seems a little overdramatic; they weren’t being _that_ gross.

_this is ur reminder that u promised to drive me to montys today so separate ur mouths from one another pls and thank_

Then, _NOW bell i mean it i will spray u both w the hose like when jaspers dog humps the carpet_

Bellamy texts her back, _Error 030 Request Denied_ , and then _Sorry, too busy having sex on all the dishware maybe you should just walk?_

Octavia sends him a long string of rude and inappropriate emoji’s, which he forwards to Clarke so she can laugh at them too.

When his sister appears from her room, she has a packed bag slung over her shoulder, and is glaring at both of them in turn. “I’m spending the night there,” she declares, leaving no room for argument. “So hopefully you can get _this_ ,” she gestures between them, “Out of your system by the time I get back—although, it’s been _five months_ , so you’d think you’d be over this by now.”

“Yeah, we should really skip all this sex stuff and go straight to going to bed around eight,” Clarke says sagely.

“We would make a fantastic old married couple,” Bellamy agrees, and O blows a raspberry into the air.

“Are we leaving?” she demands. “Why aren’t we leaving?” And then she marches out to the van before they can answer like the assholes they are. He can hear her grumble “She was _my_ friend first,” along the way, which isn’t even really a fair argument, since she and Clarke stayed up the night before watching Adult Swim and painting each other’s toenails.

“I think she’s mad she’s not my favorite Blake, anymore,” Clarke muses as he fishes his car keys from the change dish, and tugs on his shoes.

“So I’m the favorite now?” he grins, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“Only because you get me off,” she shoots, and he kisses her, fast and sloppy on the side of the mouth.

“Yeah, that doesn't really work as a burn on me,” he teases, running after his sister.

“You should just tell her,” Octavia says once they’re driving, and Bellamy’s pretty sure they’ve had this conversation before.

“Tell her what?” he asks, mild. Clarke already knows what she needs to—that he loves her, and wants her, for pretty much the rest of their lives.

“That she should marry you, like, _tomorrow_ ,” Octavia explains, like it’s obvious.

Bellamy shrugs. “We’ll get married when we feel like it,” he says, and he means it. He may not have bought a ring, or popped the question, but he’s pretty sure they both know they’re it for each other. It’s only a matter of time.

“You should ask her dads if there’s a family ring, or something,” she suggests, and Bellamy eyes her a little.

“Why are you so concerned with mine and Clarke’s impending marriage?”

“I don’t want you two living in sin,” she says primly, and he snorts. She relents a little, glancing over at him. “I’m leaving soon,” she starts, hesitant like she always is when mentioning college. She hasn’t heard back from all the ones she applied to, yet, but she’s gotten a few acceptance letters, all out-of-state. Bellamy’s hands tighten on the wheel automatically. “I don’t want you to get lonely when I’m gone.”

He _has_ to laugh at that, because Clarke basically lives with him at this point. Half his dresser is filled with lumps of her clothes, because she refuses to fold them before tossing them in. Her art supplies litter the living room. There’s a decoupage end table drying on the bathroom floor. Her toothbrush sits next to his on the sink—wedding ring or not, there’s no way he’ll be feeling _lonely_.

“I don’t think you have to worry about that,” he offers, and Octavia glares.

“Well, I do,” she snaps. “You’re not the only one who gets to care, you know. You almost didn’t get to date Clarke, because you refused to ask her out. I don’t want you to lose her just because you were too dumb to ask her to marry you.”

She kind of has a point, so Bellamy relents a little. “I’ll ask her about marriage,” he promises. “But I think I should probably get through dinner with the parents, first.”

Octavia looks a little suspicious at having won so easily, but eventually nods. “You’ll be fine,” she predicts. “Clarke said she’s never taken any of her lovers home before, so they’re just excited to finally meet one.”

Bellamy chokes on his own air and turns it into a cough, while Octavia watches him smugly. “Jesus, O,” he gasps out. “Any of her _what_? Don’t answer that—just. Thanks for your support, really. I’ve got this.”

“Sure,” Octavia agrees, sounding unconvinced, but she doesn’t argue.

He manages to drop her off at Monty with no problems, but something bumps into his side door as he’s driving home. When he gets out to look, it’s a briefcase, filled with little envelopes of cash. Nobody’s around that he can see, so he drops it off at the police station. Most of the force knows him by face, now, so they just wave and have him sign a few forms detailing what happened, before letting him leave.

Clarke still isn’t dressed when he gets home, and she’s sitting in her underwear in the bathroom, decoupaging the matching end table. Her hair is up in a bun, with bits sticking to the sweat on her neck, and her hands and wrists are covered in that gluey muck, fingertips black from bits of newspaper. He should probably not push her to the ground and have sex, right now. Maybe. She grins up at him, rubbing an arm across her forehead and smudging it with gray.

“How’d it go?”

“I got hit with a bag of money on the way home,” he offers, sitting on the closed toilet lid. Her eyebrows shoot up.

“You take it to Miller?”

“To the station, yeah.” He shakes his head a little. “I really need to get rid of that van.”

“Shut up, that van’s _awesome_ ,” Clarke declares, and he grins.

“You just say that because we had sex in it.” It’s hard not to agree.

“And will continue to have sex in it,” Clarke adds, “Because it’s awesome, and also the carpet’s really soft.”

“You know that van was around during Free Love, right?” he teases. “So many babies were made on that carpet.”

Clarke waggles her brows suggestively. “Wanna add to that list?” She laughs when he flushes.

He hasn’t told her that, either. He should probably wait until they’re married, or at least until they’ve talked about it. He’d like to have a college fund set up for the kid, or something. And preferably live in the same apartment.

He wets his lips a little. It’s _Clarke_ , so this should be easy. She’s his favorite person to talk to. “Octavia thinks we should get married,” he says, because he’s a coward.

Clarke raises a brow, unimpressed. “Octavia thinks so?”

“I sort of agree,” he adds. “If you want.”

“Let’s see how dinner with my dads goes,” she says, but she’s grinning.

Bellamy huffs. “That’s what _I_ said,” and she laughs.

Then he pushes her to the ground to have sex, because he can only stand seeing her half-naked for so long without _doing_ something about it.

“I’m not forgetting about the dinner,” she warns when it’s over, and he frowns.

“I know,” he says, still breathing a little heavy. It doesn’t help that she keeps rubbing her thigh up against him, like she’s impatient and ready for more. “I wasn’t trying to distract you with my dick.”

“Well you should,” she decides, rolling on top of him. He’s pretty sure there’s mod podge on his ass, but he really doesn’t care.

Clarke rushes into his apartment in a flurry, three days later. The dinner is in a week, marked on his calendar in her handwriting, with stars and happy faces doodled all around.

Octavia is at Monty’s—or maybe Jasper’s, they’re pretty interchangeable at this point—both, in an attempt to avoid his and Clarke’s ridiculousness, and to start getting used to being away from home.

“Change of plans,” Clarke calls out. She’s dressed normal for once, in jeans and an old Grateful Dead t-shirt, with a pair of beaded flip flops on her feet. He’s worn the same clothes three days in a row, because the library’s undergoing construction, and he’s currently eating frosted mini wheats and playing Spider Solitaire on the computer.

“What,” he blurts, feeling underdressed and stupid. Clarke isn’t even dressed _up_ , he’s just sort of disgusting. But she just rolls her eyes, because she’s used to it, used to him.

“There’s a ficus emergency,” she says, which doesn’t really explain anything at all.

“ _What_ ,” he repeats, as she takes his cereal away.

“Get dressed,” she orders, patience evaporating. “My dads need us.”

Bellamy barely manages to shrug on jeans and a fresh shirt before Clarke’s ushering him out the door, and over to her moped.

“We don’t have time to stop a bank robbery,” she shrugs, tossing him her extra helmet.

Bellamy had been a little unsure about riding on Ingrid, the first few times. The machine just looks so _small_ , like it couldn’t possibly hold both of their weight, but it’s proven surprisingly hefty in the last several months. And he sort of likes having an excuse to hold onto Clarke so tightly—not that he needs one. It’s just nice to have.

She zips along the streets, through the city proper and out onto the suburb on its opposite side. Her dads only live forty to forty-five minutes away, but it’s enough of a drive to be inconvenient most days.

That, and he just really wanted to put it off a little. He’s been expecting a solid seven more days before he had to meet them, and now that it’s happening, he’s totally drawing a blank.

He was going to make flash cards of conversation points, and go over them the night before. Not, like, a lot or anything. Just four or five, enough to keep things going for a while, over pasta or chicken parmesan.

But to his surprise, they don’t pull up to the house from Clarke’s family photos, but instead one he’s never seen before. There’s a FOR SALE sign in the front yard, advertising Kane and Co. Realtors, which explains things. He’d known her father Marcus owned a few properties, like their duplex, some of which he’s been looking to sell.

He understands the moment they park, and he actually takes a good look at the place. The house itself looks fairly nice, definitely above his own budget, and fairly well taken care of. The front yard is a whole different story.

“What _happened_?” he asks, swinging his leg over and helping Clarke up.

“Something about an unhappy neighbor,” she frowns, hooking their helmets around the side. “They don’t know who, though.”

“Maybe we should have brought the van,” Bellamy muses, following her over the lawn.

There are gaping holes throughout the grass, with soil and weeds tossed in clumps all over. The flowerbeds have been mauled, and the small trees—or ficuses, he supposes, lining the pathway—have been torn apart, some completely hacked from their trunks. Three men—two older, and one around Clarke’s age—are digging through the beds, trying to salvage what they can, and tossing the rest into a plastic garbage bin nearby.

“We’re here,” Clarke calls, unnecessarily; they had to have heard Ingrid pulling up. But they each stand and offer a polite, if a little grim, wave in greeting.

“Pick up all the branches,” one of the older men calls, Marcus, Bellamy knows, from studying Clarke’s family pictures in preparation for the meeting. He looks angry, and while Bellamy knows it’s not because of _him_ , it’s still a little horrifying. “I can burn them, along with whoever did this, when I find out.”

Clarke’s other dad, Theo, Bellamy’s pretty sure, just looks at his husband, amused. “I think that might be a bit much,” he says. “Looting a garden isn’t exactly a capital offence.”

“Well, it should be,” Marcus says hotly, turning back to the flower beds. Theo just sighs, and turns to Bellamy.

“You must be the boyfriend,” he guesses, stretching out a hand. Bellamy has to take a few steps to reach it. “I’m Theo, and this is my husband Marcus. We’re very glad to finally meet you,” he sends Clarke a meaningful look that she pretends to ignore, and Bellamy’s pretty sure it means they’ve been _trying_ to meet him for a while, now. Theo gestures to the younger man—who Bellamy can now recognize as Theo’s biological son, and Clarke’s brother. “My son, Wells.”

“Different gene pools,” Wells quips, nodding between himself and Clarke as he shakes Bellamy’s hand. Marcus gives an annoyed wave without turning around again, but everyone just sort of ignores it.

“I’m sorry to meet under such circumstances,” Theo adds, reaching for one of the shovels leaned up against the house. He hands it over to Bellamy. “But I’m afraid you’ll be earning your supper, tonight.”

That’s how the afternoon is spent; Bellamy fills in the holes in the grass, and then works at raking up the spilled potting soil, while Clarke collects all the broken branches with Wells, and their dads fix up the flowerbeds as best they can. They finish up just as the sun sets, sweaty and covered in dirty, and pack the tools up in Marcus’s Volvo before agreeing to meet back at their house to eat.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Bellamy decides, pulling on his helmet.

Clarke _cackles_ , which is less than reassuring. “You guys barely even talked!” she laughs. “Don’t worry; dinner will be everything you’ve been dreading, and more.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, sliding his arms around her. Clarke pats his hands where they’re looped on her stomach.

“I’ll protect you,” she promises, and he presses a kiss to her hair.

Bellamy’s been expecting a lot of awkward, prying questions about his family and childhood and other generally personal things he hates talking about. He’s been prepared for the worst—but he never thought to prepare himself for Clarke’s mother.

“Fuck,” Clarke says, blinking at where Abby’s standing in the kitchen. She’s holding a mug of what might be tea, and staring back at her daughter.

“Language,” Marcus admonishes, and Clarke glowers.

“What is she doing here?” she demands, and turns to Bellamy, apologetic. “I wasn’t going to subject you to her for at least another month, I swear.”

He grins a little—he can’t really help it. She’s nervous about him meeting her mom, and it’s adorable—and leans in to nuzzle her hair. “It’s fine,” he shrugs. “I was gonna meet your parents eventually, this way I get them all done in one go. Like one of those chicken pox-measles-flu vaccines.”

“Did you just compare us to diseases?” Theo asks, at the same time that Wells calls “That’s the spirit!” from the dining room.

“Go sit down,” Marcus orders, but he sounds a little affectionate about it. Sort of. “Have some tea. Talk to measles.”

Abby glances at him, amused. “If I’m measles, which one are you?”

Marcus scoffs. “The flu, _obviously_.” He waves them off with an oven mitt. “Now, _go_.”

They file into the dining room one by one, Clarke holding Bellamy’s hand almost viciously. Wells is already sitting down, looking altogether delighted about the situation. Clarke makes a face at him.

“You’re just smug because your dates will never have to meet your mom,” she accuses.

“Yep,” Wells chirps, and turns to Bellamy. “My mom’s dead,” he explains.

“Cool, so’s mine,” Bellamy says, and they clink glasses, while Abby looks on, mildly appalled.

“Mr. Blake, I hope you like Asian cooking,” Theo announces, carrying an enormous pot to the table.

“Actually, I’m Filipino, so I’m kind of obligated to like it,” Bellamy shrugs, and Clarke gives him a grin. She actually looks _proud_ , like he’s already won them all over.

“That’s so interesting,” Theo says, even though Bellamy’s ninety-nine percent sure he’s just being polite. It’s still a nice gesture. “Which part of your family, may I ask?”

“Uh, my dad’s,” Bellamy mumbles, taking a large drink of water. They haven’t started dishing up plates, yet, so he can’t really get away with stuffing his face to avoid answering questions.

They seem to get the message, though.

“And your mother?” Marcus asks, bring out a bowl of tossed salad, and three different dressings—Ranch, Italian, and something that looks like it could be Honey Mustard.

Clarke is shooting her fathers equal looks of wrath and desperation, which actually improves Bellamy’s mood. She’s got his back; he can do this.

“She was American,” he shrugs, finally landing a forkful of salad as the bowl gets passed around. Clarke passes him the Ranch without a word, and he grins. “She died when I was seventeen.”

“That must have been awful,” Theo says. He means well, Bellamy knows.

Clarke looks ready to just lay down and die, so he nudges her foot under the table. At least, he hopes it’s her foot. If it’s not, he hopes it’s Wells’s or something, and not one of her dads’. Or her _mom_ ’s.

“Not really. I was emancipated by then, and had custody of my sister, so, you know. I only knew about it because one of her neighbors knew our address, and sent me a condolences card.”

Everyone’s pretty much staring at him now, like he knew they would. He could easily have played it off, and beat around the bush with things, given vague, noncommittal answers that weren’t so upsetting or sad, but. He’s tired of having to avoid the topic, just so he doesn’t make other people uncomfortable, and anyway, it’s not like they won’t ever find out.

Clarke nudges his foot back, and keeps hers there, pressed against him. He’s definitely marrying her.

“That seems very young to be emancipated,” Theo muses finally. “Your lawyer must have been superb.”

It catches Bellamy off guard enough for him to just sort of stare for a minute, and then he laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Indra’s badass. I can give you her number,” he offers, remembering that Theo has his own firm.

“Please,” he nods, turning to his son. “Don’t think you’re getting out of talking, tonight,” he tells him. “I heard you’re up for partner this month.”

Wells turns bright red and mumbles something noncommittal, and Clarke spends the rest of the night making faces at Bellamy over the table, and playing footsie with him under it.

“What is it you do, Bellamy?” Abby asks, near the end of the meal. They’re having real, home-made strawberry shortcake, because apparently when he’s not selling expensive houses, Marcus likes to bake.

“I’m a librarian,” he says, refusing to feel embarrassed. He’d worked hard for his degree, taking night classes for three years so he could graduate early and land a full-time job with benefits, while O was in middle school. He’s earned the right to be proud.

“Bellamy works at the school library,” Clarke adds, bright and happy. The night’s gone well—no one got in a fight over social status or politics, and they seem to like him well enough—she’s clearly very pleased. “He’s the local expert on ancient languages.”

Bellamy ducks his head, flushing. “I wouldn’t say _expert_ —”

“He’s the expert,” Clarke says, definitive. “Everyone goes to him for help with the Latin and Greek texts. Even Middle English.”

Her dads look decidedly impressed, and Wells shoots him a discrete thumbs up. Abby, though, remains unreadable.

“And is that what you want to do?” she presses. “Long term?” Clarke huffs, but Abby ignores her.

“It is, yeah,” Bellamy nods. “I mean, I’m hoping to get my PhD at some point, once O’s settled, and maybe be published someday, but. I’m pretty happy with my life, as is.” He looks over to find Clarke grinning a little smugly, like he’s just won some battle with her mother, and he rolls his eyes at her. She rolls hers back.

“You should be,” Theo decides. “You’ve done very well. Much better than most could.”

That seems to be the end of the conversation, because then everyone’s turned back on Wells, and the new girlfriend he’s refusing to bring over.

It’s dark out when he and Clarke finally leave—he stands by the door, while she hugs her fathers in turn, and then Wells, and then even Abby.

“I’m so glad you came,” Theo says, clapping his shoulder. “We should do this again.”

“Whenever you need your shots updated,” Marcus adds with a wry smile.

“So,” Clarke starts, looping her arm in his as they walk to where Ingrid is parked on the curb. She hadn’t even bothered locking the helmets; in this neighborhood, someone could drop a one hundred dollar bill, and have it instantly returned to them.

“I think it went well,” Bellamy says. His phone is buzzing with unread messages from Octavia, probably demanding to know if he’s asked Clarke to marry him, or been shot by one of her dads. He’ll answer them all later, and vaguely, until she’s so infuriated that she actually calls. “Wells is cool. Your dads liked me, sort of. Abby seemed to accept my existence.”

Clarke snorts. “Don’t hold your breath for her,” she warns. “But I _really_ don’t care about what she thinks of you. She’s my mom, and I love her, kind of, in a weird way. But once you give your kid up for adoption, you kind of lose that respect, you know?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy nods. He does know; when he was a kid, it had been easy to forgive his mother her shortcomings, because he could take care of himself. He could handle it. But once Octavia came, and Aurora refused to even baby-proof the house, he gave up on her.

It felt sort of shitty at the time, because she was his _mom_ , and he was supposed to love her unconditionally, but. She’d given up on them, first.

He was still sad, when she died. He and O cried at the funeral. But the pain has dulled, since then. He still misses her, of course. Still wishes Clarke could meet her, just because.

“So, were you happy with your _dad-and-dad_ experience?” she teases, settling onto Ingrid.

Bellamy laughs. “Definitely.” He scoots up against her and squeezes, and she squeezes back before starting the engine. “So, I should probably swing by that house on my way to work tomorrow, right? With the van. Just to see what happens.”

“I don’t care what my dad says, you are not allowed to run over that asshole neighbor.”

“No, of course not,” Bellamy agrees, and then pauses. “How do you feel about _maiming_?”

Clarke laughs. “Seriously, do not use physical assault to make my dad like you more,” she orders, and he grins against her hair.

He’ll buy the ring tomorrow.


End file.
